


Are You Satisfied?

by petrichor_bubble



Series: Blood magic and other Shenanigans [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Ambrose Surana is bitter af, Bisexual Male Character, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Canon-Typical Violence, Circle Mages, Demon Deals, Desire Demons (Dragon Age), Half-Elves, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Mage Abuse and Opression (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Mages (Dragon Age), Magic, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pride Demons (Dragon Age), Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Tranquil Mages, Unreliable Narrator, we die like the idiots we are, with potential for not so light angst later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrichor_bubble/pseuds/petrichor_bubble
Summary: “How long have you been watching?”“Since the beginning. I saw that your dream was interrupted, so I came here right away.”“And you just let me deal with that demon on my own?”“Because I knew you would do wonderfully. And even if you didn’t, I wouldn’t have let that thing touch you, Ambrose. You are mine.”Ambrose Surana is a half-elf, a blood mage, and generally a not so nice person. Which was fine before everyone expected him to stop a Blight. Now he has to deal with Darkspawn, weird people, a demon that wants to take over his body, and being in the outside world for the first time in his life.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Blood magic and other Shenanigans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115738
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather spontaneous idea because I wanted to write one of my asshole Ocs as the occasional warm-up/relaxation thingy, so here we are.
> 
> Also I'm not a native speaker, so if something sounds off, that might be it. Apologies for that.
> 
> This is really nothing too special the story simply follows Ambrose through Origins, (it is only a warm-up/relaxation thing for me after all) but he has... some very intersting thoughts. 
> 
> Anyway, have fun!

Ambrose awoke with a start, a hand clasped over his mouth, suffocating the beginning of a shout. He would have thought it to be Jowan or one of the others— playing a prank on him or trying to wake him for a little joined mischief. But there was cold metal on his lips, and he was far too familiar with the feeling of gauntlets on him to not recognize them even with sleep still addling his mind.

He tried to calm himself. Push away the instinct to call forth lightning, zapping whoever was touching him.

Blinking, he finally made out the shape of a templar helmet above him. The lack of light in the dormitories made it difficult to make out any details. Not that there would be much to see in the first place. The templar armors hadn’t changed since he had come to the circle. And he had been here a long time. Longer than some of the harrowed mages even.

Too long, he would say.

The Templar placed one of their fingers over the space, where their mouth presumably was. Ambrose narrowed his eyes for a moment before nodding in return.

_Ass._

If they didn’t want him to be loud, maybe they shouldn’t have woken him up like this. But who was he to disobey a Templar?

The cold gauntlet left his mouth, and he sat up, shaking his head, lowering his face so they couldn’t see his annoyed expression.

“Come.” The Templar’s voice echoed strangely inside their helmet even when they whisper. “They are waiting for you.” Ambrose almost wanted to ask who would be waiting for him. Still, there are really only so many people who had the power to order templars around—two, to be exact. And First Enchanter Irving’s ‘power’ was only really a courtesy. A poor display of respect that conveniently got lost whenever the older man disagreed with the Knight-Commander.

His eyes narrowed at the Templar.

“Rutherford? Is that you?” The Templar tensed visibly.

“How did you?”

Ambrose rolled his eyes.

“You have been here for a year; it’s not like you never talk to anyone,” he pointed out in a whisper of his own. He pushed his short hair back as he looks up, just in time to see Cullen Rutherford take off his helmet. His face flushed with embarrassment; his eyes underlined with dark circles.

Cullen Rutherford had arrived at Kinloch Hold maybe a year ago. A freshly baked recruit, starry-eyed and naive. He still was, though he looked a lot worse than a year ago, Ambrose thought. A few more years, and he would start trying to get his hands on more lyrium than his share could provide. There would be shaking hands and shapes in every shadow he saw. Then the lyrium would eat up his mind until there was little more to him than a tranquil.

Ambrose didn’t feel sorry for him.

Cullen had chosen this life. Had chosen the addiction and the power that comes with it. He could have turned back a dozen times over. He could still _leave_ if he so wished.

Ambrose could not.

“Well-“ Cullen cut himself off, apparently not knowing how to proceed. “We should hurry. I don’t want to get in trouble because of you.”

For a moment, Ambrose considered making a fuss. Just out of spite. But that would hardly get him anywhere aside from punishment. Pursing his lips, he stared at Cullen for a moment longer. The brazier from the hallway flickered just enough into the dormitory to make his eyes glow as they reflected the light. It was an unnerving sight, even if he wasn’t a full elf. But in the end, it served its purpose, and the Templar turned his gaze away first.

Small victories.

Finally, with a small tired groan, he stood up, careful not to bump against the bunk bed, potentially waking Jowan. He cast a quick look over to his childhood companion, thinking for a moment that his shoulders seemed incredibly tense for someone who was supposed to be asleep.

Quickly he slipped into his shoes, trying to escape the cold stone floor beneath his feet. Then he followed Cullen out of the dormitory into the dimly lit hallway.

They didn’t talk, nor did they encounter anyone else on their way. Cullen still held his helmet in his hand.

And while he didn’t know where exactly they were going, Ambrose was reasonably sure that he knew what was going on.

The Harrowing.

He had the right age, had been more or less dragged out of bed in the middle of the night without warning, and they were climbing the stairs, going further and further up.

There was no other explanation unless...

But that couldn’t be, could it? They had no reason to think of him as anything but a good little apprentice. One who had gotten a little out of line in his teens, sure, but nothing that would warrant tranquility, or worse.

Flexing his fingers, he tried to shake off the slight tremors.

It feels like an eternity until they finally reach the top of the tower. Ambrose had never been here, but the faces he saw there were familiar indeed.

Cullen walked ahead, taking position at the side of his fellow templars, just behind the Knight-Commander. Three templars, the Knight-Commander, two senior enchanters, and the First Enchanter.

Seven sets of eyes fixed on the young mage, watching him come closer. Irving kindly stepped forward, his hand settling on Ambrose.

He would have liked to shrug him off, but that wouldn’t look good, would it?

He was supposed to be scared, to feel comforted at the gesture. There was fear, yes, but no comfort. Not like this.

There had been few times Irvin had tried to comfort him, and Ambrose had come to despise it. Despise the pattern of punishment and empty words and gestures when Irving himself turned out to be nothing more than a prisoner in this tower. One with good standing with the guards, but a prisoner nonetheless.

They told him what they expected of him. And what they would do should they think he had failed.

Sic’ing a demon on him to see if he would fall to temptation. Success was the only way to survive, otherwise... His eyes wandered to the swords at the templars side—sharp things made of gleaming steel, ready to slice and kill.

“What if I don’t want this?” he asked. He knew the answer, but a twisted part of him wanted them to say it. To hear that no matter his choice, he would still end the night in this tower. Be it in a puddle of his own blood, alive and well, or with his connection to the Fade cut. Cutting out everything that made him Ambrose, leaving nothing but an empty shell for others to gawk at.

Another cautionary tale for the weak.

Ser Greagoir did him the favor of indulging him. He knew that Ambrose was aware. Everyone in this tower was aware.

“There is always the Rite of Tranquility.” He almost spat the words, not making it a tempting offer. Yet, Ambrose couldn’t help but think that it would make his life easier if only more mages would choose that option voluntarily. Behind the Knight-Commander, he saw Cullen grimace for a moment.

“But that is not truly worth it, is it?” The First Enchanter began, glaring at the Templar. His grip on the young mage’s shoulder tightened, and Ambrose finally stepped away from him. He did not plan on being a battlefield for old men, who had been bickering ever since they laid eyes on one another.

“I’m ready.” Ambrose stepped forward, suppressing the urge to roll his shoulder, trying to get rid of the itching feeling lingering where he had been touched.

The templars ordered him to touch the lyrium prepared for him. Irving tried to explain in more detail but was cut short once more.

“He has to do it alone. No help.” He could see the old man’s jaw working before his eyes settled once again on the apprentice.

“You can do this, Ambrose. Everything will be fine.”

Empty promises.

Ambrose turned away and walked towards the pedestal. He could hear the lyrium singing, a soft hum inside his head, shaking something in his bones and blood. The icy blue glow more tempting than any demon could ever hope to be.

A touch of power.

And that was all it needed—just a touch.

It stuck to his fingers, tingling on his skin. Diluted so much it was of little danger yet still filled to the brim with power and energy. Something was calling to him, and Ambrose focused on it. Away from the templars and their sharpened swords. Away from the mages and their empty words. The glow of the lyrium got brighter and brighter, the sweet song louder, and then... nothing.

For an endless moment, there was nothing. No smells, no sounds, no sights, no taste, no feeling.

For a short, endless moment, it was as if Ambrose Surana did not exist at all.

Until suddenly, he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ambrose enters the Fade and meets... someone.

With a loud gasp, Ambrose opened his eyes. He blinked rapidly as he tried to make sense of where he was.

The logical part of his brain was very much aware of where he was. It had been the goal of all this, after all.

But the Fade was not a place of logic.

It’s a place of dreams and nightmares. Of will and intention.

So, he willed himself to not spin into the abyss anymore, willed his thrumming heart to calm down, and then he opened his eyes once again.

Everything seemed just a little off. The colors a little too desaturated, the air a little too still, the ground a little too spongey.

Like a dream.

“Here we go.” His voice echoed in the space, and he took a breath before he took his first step. It was strange. Like it wasn’t really him taking a step so much as him, willing the space around to move. It was disorientating, confusing.

Years ago, Ambrose had read about Dreamers. Twisting the Fade around their will in ways no mage could achieve, no matter the amount of lyrium they took.

What power that must be.

Ambrose, on the other hand, felt like he was about to float into nothingness if he so much as lost his focus. His features twisted into a grimace, and he stopped in his steps. There had to be an easier way to do this.

He looked around again.

There. At the end of the pathway stood a grotesque statue. Twisted limbs, ever-changing into creatures of nightmares, while at the same time the stone and metal of it stood silent and still.

Ambrose focused on the statue. He imagined himself standing before it, imagined his feet crossing the distance with only a step.

He took that step.

Non-existent wind caressed his skin, rushing past his slightly pointed ears. His stomach fluttered, and when he blinked, he stood before the statue, its toothy maw opened in a silent scream.

Ambrose smirked, tilting his head at the statue.

“Sucks to be you, buddy,” he snickered. The screaming visage turned into one of mourning. “Oh, please. Don’t think I’d start to feel sorry for you. It’s not my fault you ended up here, like this.” The statue’s face seemed to crumble, turning to dust as the whole construct shivered and changed.

Ambrose tapped the tip of his shoes against the pedestal, right next to the rusty plaque.

“Good luck trying to find peace here,” he murmured under his breath and turned away. He didn’t have time for this, after all.

Slowly he was getting the hang of walking in the Fade like this. Will and intent.

Fighting felt easier than walking in this realm.

Pulling at his magic in the waking world worked much the same, after all. Willing something into being that wasn’t entirely there. That was all there was to magic, after all. At least in theory.

So, he snapped his fingers at a wisp; lighting shot out of his fingertips. With a crack, the wisp dissolved into nothingness. Maybe it would reform somewhere else. Or maybe its very essence was gone forever. Ambrose couldn’t say, nor did he care too much for an answer. It was gone and unable to bother him for now; that was all the information he needed.

It felt like hours could have passed, or maybe merely seconds, but when he turned another corner, he came to a sudden halt. A rat was sitting on his path. A rather huge dark-furred rat, its equally dark eyes blinking up to him, the tip of the pale, hairless tail twitching at his sight.

“Huh.” Ambrose tilted his head, raising one of his eyebrows.

“Someone else thrown to the wolves,” a voice said, almost a whisper in Ambrose’s head. “As fresh and unprepared as ever.” Ambrose’s eyebrow climbed a little further upwards, and he crouched down to take a better look at it. “It isn’t right that they do this, the templars. Not to you, me, anyone.”

The voice sounded enraged. Righteous anger. Ambrose huffed and leaned his chin on his palm.

“You’re not saying anything new, rat. Don’t you have anything more interesting to say? I’m kind of busy here.” He reached out with his free hand, poking the rat, almost softly, on its head. There was a texture of fur, but it felt off. Like a distant memory or someone trying to convey the feeling to somebody who had never seen a rat in their life. The creature itself didn’t seem to mind, a small twitch of its head, and more blinking, but nothing more.

“You are, yes,” the voice admitted. “It’s always the same, isn’t it? They let their rabid dogs off the leash, but only for so long.” The rat tilted its head with a weary sigh, almost as if it was trying to imitate Ambrose.

“You’re in the same boat I was, aren’t you?” And there was the pity. The voice sounded solemn, tired as if it had seen too much of the same thing. As if it had become weary of all the things to possibly come.

With a bright light, the rat before him started to glow. The bright silhouette changed form and size, and once it had become taller than Ambrose’s crouched form, he stood up and took a step back.

In a matter of seconds, the rat was replaced by the figure of a man. Tall and young and human with pale ashy skin and brownish hair. He smiled, friendly, and welcoming.

“Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me... well, Mouse.”

“You were a rat. Not a mouse.” Ambrose smirked, mirth in his eyes. The man’s features twisted for a moment. Apparently, he didn’t like to be called ‘rat.’

“Well, Mouse sounds a little more flattering, don’t you think?” he argued. Ambrose snorted.

“Not one bit. Were you too proud to take on the shape of an actual mouse? Better take on the form of a slightly bigger vermin, if you have to be one at all?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. Another twitch from Mouse.

“No. I think... I may have forgotten that there is much of a difference between a rat and a mouse. I have forgotten everything from before.” Now his features returned to a suffering expression, silently asking for pity the same way he had tried to offer before. “The templars kill you if you take too long, you know? They think you have failed and don’t want anything else coming through. I think that is what happened to me. And if you take too long, it will happen to you too.”

“Huh. Interesting, really. But not my problem, is it? Well, the ‘you being dead’- part, at least. Unless you have something to tell me that is useful for me, I should be on my way.” Ambrose shrugged and made for walking away, but then Mouse called out.

“Wait!” He turned around an expectant look on his face. “There is something here, a demon. They expect you to resist it if you can.” Mouse narrowed his eyes in Ambrose’s direction.

“A test then?”

“For you, yes. And a tease for the creatures of the Fade.”

Ambrose tilted his head again, walking a slow circle around Mouse.

“You seem to know a lot about all of this.” Mouse hummed and mirrored the circle.

“I have been here a while, and there are other creatures here. Things that might be able to help you if you are inclined to believe them.”

 _Hardly_ , Ambrose thought but hummed in return before he stopped.

“I guess I should thank you for the warning, then?” he asked a smile playing on his lips. Mouse returned the smile, the tension easing from his features.

“No need to thank me yet. I would like to accompany you. It’s too late for me, but not yet for you. I’d like to help.” A quiet chuckle escaped from the half-elf’s lips.

“Please, Ser Mouse. Go ahead. I will follow right behind you.” He smiled, warm and friendly, and Mouse returned to his rat form. Ambrose’s smile sharpened, like a viper before it struck. Mouse managed three steps before Ambrose brought his foot down on the rat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mouse truly isn't the most dangerous demon the Fade has to offer.

Something almost like a squeak escaped the rat, and Ambrose was surprised at finding resistance under his shoe. As if there truly was a solid body beneath him, trying to resist the pressure he put on the small body.

“What are you doing?!” Mouse asked, no—demanded to know. There was more anger than fear in his voice, and if Ambrose felt any bit of guilt for his actions, it would be gone now.

“You know, I’m not a smart man. But you, Ser Mouse, _you_ seem even more of an idiot than me.” He put more weight on his foot. For a moment, he thought there was a small cracking noise, but he ignored it. “You talk like some poor apprentice, who failed his Harrowing, and yet you wear Enchanter Robes. Rather arrogant, don’t you think? And that sob-story about the templars killing you? Makes me wonder if you would tell a different tale if I were more agreeable with those people.”

“You- What are you trying to say?” Mouse growled, which was a rather impressive feat, Ambrose thought, considering that the being was still trapped under his foot.

“I am saying that you are a rather pathetic specimen of a demon.”

“You insolent little mongrel!” With its shout, the world around them seemed to shudder and quake—the pleasant half-whisper of his voice now gone, replaced with a deep rumble. Ambrose grinned with the excited rush in his veins.

But then the resistance against his foot grew. The body of the rat expanded, growing more and more until Ambrose had to lift his foot to step away so he wouldn’t fall on his behind. Where once was a rat, there was now a twisted, gigantic figure.

Scales, spikes, and muscle all formed together into something that may have four limbs like a human yet was anything but.

“ _Clever_ little mongrel,” it snarled, the colossal form shadowing over Ambrose. “So much potential. I could give you even more. I could _make_ you more. You just have to let me through. Let me in.”

Ambrose threw his head back in laughter.

“You can’t do shit. You are trapped here yourself, aren’t you? One Harrowing after another watching mages flaunt about and leave again, and you are stuck here. Besides... You are a little late with your offer.”

There was a moment of silence as Ambrose smirked up to the demon. Then it started to laugh with a deep rumbling growl that shook the Fade around them again.

“Clever little mongrel,” the demon murmured again; this time, it sounded more impressed, less like an insult.

“And it is rather rude to poach upon another’s prey, even for your kind,” a new voice called out—a familiar voice for Ambrose. Following the voice was a hand on his shoulder. Warm and soft and comforting in ways Irving’s hand had never been for him.

_Tharis._

“You took your time,” he muttered but didn’t dare to look away from the pride demon yet. Tharis pressed their body to his side, their lips gently moving against the shell of his ear.

“I wanted to see you demolish this one. You did so well, my darling.” Then their attention wandered back to the other demon. “And you leave now. I have things to talk about with my pet.”

The pride demon seemed to turn its non-existent nose up on Tharis, yet it vanished when Ambrose turned his head towards Tharis.

“I’m not your pet.”

“No? You behave so well for me; I must have forgotten.” Tharis shrugged casually. They pinched his cheek in their fingers until he swatted their hand off and took a step away from them.

Tharis was wearing the face of someone unknown today. A young woman with black hair and pretty brown eyes. Rosy cheeks and rosy lips pulled into a smirk that didn’t look quite right on this lovely face.

“Who’s that?” he asked, nodding to Tharis’s form. She looked down on herself, wiggling her fingers before flicking the black locks over her slim shoulders.

“Oh, just some village girl I saw stumbling around in the Fade. She has a twin brother if that is more your taste today?” The girl tilted her head curiously. Ambrose mirrored the motion. He snorted.

“No, this is fine. Just don’t turn into Jowan or, Maker forbid, Rutherford again. I don’t need those kinds of nightmares.”

“Oh, but you _liked_ those occasions. I remember them _very_ well.” Tharis purred, her arms wrapped around the back of his neck, pressing close. She snickered when she caught the flush on the pointed tips of his ears.

“Yes, the awkwardness after was _very_ amusing,” he grumbled, taking another step back, ignoring Tharis’s giggle.

It was never not strange to hear Tharis’s voice coming from a different body every other time they met. She much preferred to tease him with different appearances than to show her true form. Not that said true form wasn’t attractive in its own right. The advantages of a desire demon. And even though Tharis could imitate the voices and behaviors of the people she appeared as... she hardly did so. Ambrose assumed it was because she liked to throw him off, or maybe she simply didn’t care enough anymore.

They had known each other for so long now. Maybe she had simply grown tired of pretending after a while. He knows he has.

Tharis stopped the giggle, folding her arms elegantly in front of her chest.

“It is nice to meet you like this. So much closer than in your dreams. And you did so well with that boring old pride demon!” Tharis praised him like a mother praises the first steps of her child. Ambrose stayed quiet.

“Ah, but what else did I expect of my clever Ambrose. Such a nice touch, crushing it under your shoe. Though I think you might should have tried to kill it in this form.”

“Would that even have worked?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Somehow, he doubted it.

“Probably not, but it would have been fun to watch.” She shrugged. Ambrose narrowed his eyes in her direction.

_Bitch._

“How long have you been watching?”

“Since the beginning. I saw that your dream was interrupted, so I came here right away.”

“And you just let me deal with that demon on my own?” Ambrose felt anger bubble in his chest. Tharis seemed to notice too. Approaching again, with that soft, proud smile, he wanted to hate.

“Because I knew you would do wonderfully. And even if you didn’t, I wouldn’t have let that thing touch you, Ambrose.” Warm hands cupped his cheeks, a thumb brushing under his eyes. “You are mine.”

The reminder was soft, but Ambrose knew the threat behind it. He saw a familiar hunger in her eyes, a desire that couldn’t be sated in the Fade.

“Not yet,” he muttered, leaning into the touch. “This is my Harrowing; they will watch me even closer. For a while after, too, I suppose.”

Tharis pursed her lips, the cold and calculation returning to her gaze. So unfitting for those eyes.

“I am aware. But you have refused me for a long time already. I am getting... impatient.” Her nails dug into the soft skin behind his ears for a moment. He clicked his tongue.

 _I wouldn’t have noticed,_ he thought with a pained grumble. Tharis sighed and let go, and took a step away from him.

“Well, I should not keep you, my darling. I wouldn’t want those brutes to lop off your pretty head after I put so much work into you,” she nodded in agreement to her own words.

“Yes,” Ambrose muttered, rubbing behind his ears where her touch still lingered. “What a shame that would be.”

Tharis turned around to him, watching him. Neither demon nor mage said a word for a while before she finally walked to him once more. Her fingers brushed some stray hair out of his face. Her touch ghosting over the pale scar at the side of his nose.

Then she leaned against his side once more. Her lips so close to the shell of his ear that he could feel her lips move as she spoke: “Don’t forget your true desires, Ambrose.”

And with a soft breeze, she was gone, and the Fade turned to dust around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will use they/them pronouns for Tharis unless they are in a gendered form like in this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jowan is being sus and now there are Gray Wardens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning!  
> There is a very brief implication of suicide after the chapter seperation //////  
> If that makes you uncomfortable I would skip from the moment Ambrose stops at the window to 'Priorities.' in italics.  
> It's a very short section and not explicit, but just in case.

Ambrose awoke with a start.

But instead of a gauntlet covering his mouth, there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake.

"Come on, Ambrose. Wake up already."

Jowan's voice was familiar in his ears, as was the lumpiness of his mattress. Blinking rapidly, he tried to shake the heaviness from his eyes. He shook his head, trying to make sense of the world around him.

He was not in the Fade; that much was clear.

There was real air and real weight to his movements. The coarse cloth of the blanket was too heavy and detailed, the noises too loud and clear.

The apprentice dorms. His bed, the bottom bunk, right under Jowan's so he could tease him not to crash on top of him. So he could hide the small knife in a slit in Jowan's mattress, loosely sewn shut under the pretense of not wanting to get smothered by feathers and straw.

Ambrose blinked again, and his eyes finally focused on the human.

"Hey..." he muttered and slowly got up, rubbing his tired face before pushing his black hair back once again. Jowan sighed.

"Thank the Maker. I was getting worried there," he said, looking Ambrose over. "They carried you in this morning, hours ago!"

"Urgh, still feels like I didn't sleep at all, though." Ambrose turned his head this way and that until he could hear his neck crack, instantly followed by a feeling of release and a disapproving grimace from Jowan. But the expression soon vanished from his features. He looked around the dorms, and when he found no one, he leaned closer to the half-elf, now with curiosity on his face.

"It was the Harrowing, wasn't it? What was it like? It must be dangerous when there are people who never come back," he began musing to himself. Ambrose watched his thoughtful expression for a moment, raising one of his brows, tilting his head as he rested it in his palm—much like the way he had watched Mouse when he first saw the rat in the Fade.

"You know no one is supposed to talk about it, right?" he reminded his companion with an amused smirk. Jowan threw him an entirely unimpressed look.

"That never stopped _you_ before."

 _Touché_ , Ambrose thought, nodding to himself.

"Well, basically, they throw you into the Fade and pit you against a demon. If you happen to end up as an abomination or take too much time, they kill you," Ambrose summarized with a shrug. Jowan's face slipped, turning paler than he already was.

"That makes sense. I guess." He swallowed thickly before trying to distract with a weak laugh. "Well, at least now you get to sleep upstairs in the nice mage quarters and won't have to complain about my snoring anymore."

Ambrose snorted and slowly rose from the bed, mindful not to knock his head on the top bunk.

"If I can't sleep now because I've gotten used to your stupid snoring, I'll blame you."

"You'd blame me either way." Jowan shook his head, a little calmer now, but there was still a deep frown creasing his face. "I’m just worried, you know... I’ve been here almost as long as you have, and I know I am ready, but... Somehow I feel like they don’t want me to take the Harrowing,” his voice became small and soft the more he talked, worry lacing each word.

Ambrose shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wasn’t... _good_ with this kind of thing. Jowan knew that, and yet—

“Look, if they wanted to kill you, they’d already done so, and everything else will probably fall into place sooner or later. I mean...

“They don’t let you take your Harrowing early just because you ended up here faster than others. If they did, I would’ve moved upstairs ages ago and wouldn’t have to live with the fear of you breaking the bed and falling on top of me. So-” Ambrose shrugged, waiting for Jowan to look at him again, but he didn’t.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he muttered, entirely unconvinced. “Well, you should go. They wanted me to tell you to go to Irving as soon as you are awake. We- we can talk later.”

And with that, Jowan more or less fled the room, not waiting for Ambrose to tell him to just suck it up. The words already waiting at the tip of his tongue.

He liked Jowan. He truly did. Jowan was one of the unlucky souls who had come into his magic at a young age. The kind of people who had little recollection of their family. And maybe that was what drew them to each other in their childhood—a sense of companionship from someone closer in age than the others.

But liking him did not make Ambrose softer.

With a shake of his head, Ambrose looked around, still finding the dorm empty. He would be moved upstairs now, and this might be his only chance. He settled back down on his bed, squeezing himself under the top bunk as he felt for the tear in Jowan’s mattress.

_There!_

He dug his fingers between the threads holding the hole together. They tore with a snap, and a few lonely gray feathers made their way onto his lap. Digging into the hole in the mattress, he soon felt the object he was looking for and pulled it out.

It was only a small knife. A little something he had smuggled out of the kitchens. Not while he had a shift there, of course, that would have drawn attention to him, and being found with a stolen sharp object wasn’t anything a circle mage needed.

Too many possible uses the templars would disapprove of.

He covered the hole in the mattress to the best of his abilities. Then he looked at the knife again. The blade was not as sharp as he would have liked, but it still worked as intended. For a moment, he wished he had boots, something a little higher than his shoes, something to hide a blade in.

Alas, the small pouch he was allowed to carry would have to do for now. He didn’t trust the templars or one of the other apprentices to not snoop around his few possessions stored in one of the vanities and cabinets. He knew he had done the same more than once.

Ambrose stood once more with the knife safely stored away and made his way to Irving’s office.

**//////////**

Whoever decided to put the First Enchanter’s office on one of the highest floors was not in their right mind, Ambrose decided, rubbing his wrist against his temple. He still felt sluggish from the Harrowing, and all the flights of stairs had managed to give him a headache.

Then again, the view was much better up here.

He stopped at one of the windows.

A thin slit in the wall, just wide enough to offer space for the tip of a staff or a nocked arrow. For defense, more than beautification, even if the stained glass keeping out the wind told a different story.

There were few such windows, barely letting in light, but Ambrose loved them. Loved to stop and see what little he could of the outside world. Mountains in the distance, the lake below, the tavern just a little away, close enough that many of the templars spend their few free hours there—a world just out of reach.

The upper floors had larger windows, always closed. Not that it ever stopped anyone. All of those used to have stained glass too- depicting parts of the Chant of Light- until they began to think it too expensive to try and replicate the glass pictures.

Priorities.

For a moment, his thoughts drifted to Anders, but he shakes them away the moment they came, pushing away from the window once more.

He walked towards the familiar door at the end of the hallway. The door was ajar, as it was often. Irving wanted them to feel like they could come to him whenever they needed him. An open door and an open ear, as he liked to say. But now, it only served in allowing voices to slip out, the voice of the Knight-Commander.

It sounded like they were arguing about something. Greagoir threw names of some of the senior enchanters around, complaining how they had already given more than enough or _‘their own’_ to the war effort. Ambrose clicked his tongue.

_Our own._

_What a joke,_ Ambrose thought and leaned against the wall next to the door, waiting and listening.

Apparently, the First Enchanter, for once, shared Ambrose’s thoughts.

“Your own? Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir?” The old mage growled. “Or are you afraid to let the mages out from under Chantry supervision, where they can actually use their Maker-given powers?”

A wry smile twitched on Ambrose’s lips. It was rare to see Irving argue against the templars will like this. Such moments should be enjoyed like a fine wine. The Knight-Commander, on the other hand, didn’t seem too impressed, not pleased. Go figure.

“How dare you suggest-“

But before Greagoir could continue, another voice spoke up. Deep and unfamiliar.

“Gentlemen, please. Irving, someone is here to see you.”

Ambrose tensed, flexing his fingers as he pushed away from the wall. Had he been that loud? Taking a deep breath, he opened the door completely. Greagoir’s face screwed into a grimace for a moment before his features evened out. Irving didn’t seem to react, but Ambrose could see the silent sigh in the way he raised his shoulders for a moment before dropping them. But those two were the least exciting things in this room

Unlike the third man standing between them. A tall man with warm brown skin and dark brown hair tied back. He wore armor, silver and blue, a griffon proudly carved into his chest plate.

A Gray Warden.

Ambrose had never seen one before. But he knew what it _could_ mean. The argument between Greagoir and Irving. It must be about the war down south. King Cailan was eager to fight darkspawn. Naturally, he would want the wardens on his side. And now here one was, obviously asking for more mage support in the conflict.

_It was an opportunity._

The Knight-Commander excused himself, stomping a little more than usual as he passed Ambrose. Irving meanwhile greeted him with a smile, pride lightening his face.

But Ambrose ignored him. However, he couldn’t stop himself from the sharp huff once the older mage mentioned that his phylactery had been moved. Chantry approved blood magic. The irony of it never ceased to amaze him.

He was given a staff, robes, and a ring with slight magical properties, bearing the Circle's insignia.

“Thanks...” he muttered, clutching the staff in his hand.

He had only ever had a training staff during lessons. They didn’t want the apprentices getting funny ideas by giving them their own staff. Even so, this one was different—metal, not wood. Simple and heavy. No blade or sharp ends. He had seen some of the senior enchanters with bladed staffs. Those that were more likely to be called to conflicts. He didn’t even want to imagine the number of request papers one had to fill out for that kind of addition.

But like this, _his_ staff was little more than a metal rod with a small crystal focus, held by thin metal spirals.

 _His_ staff. It felt strange to think so. Especially because he still felt like they could simply... take it away at a moment’s notice.

Irving told him to enjoy this day, to read or relax. Do all the things he had already done a thousand times in this ever-same tower.

“Can I go outside?” Ambrose couldn’t say why he even asked. The answer would always be the same, no matter how special a day was.

Irving’s face twisted with pity and a not too small part of Ambrose wanted to punch him in the face for it.

“No. You of all people should know the rules, Ambrose,” he said, his voice too gentle. He reached towards the newly harrowed mage, but Ambrose took a step back, clicking his tongue. His eyes wandered, looking around the familiar office. He noticed a stack of books on Irving’s desk. Familiar books.

Hadn’t there been a section missing in the library lately? The section about blood magic. Had Irving finally caved to the templars demands and removed it? None of the books talked about how blood magic worked, not truly. It was just a bunch of philosophical musings and theological damnations, so why would they—

He shook his head. It didn’t matter.

Ambrose fixed his gaze downward instead.

“Yeah. Sure. May I leave now, First Enchanter?” he grumbled, glaring at his own feet.

“Ah, yes, but would you do me the favor of escorting Duncan to his room? I should have a word with our Knight-Commander again,” Irving asked. Ambrose looked up to the Warden.

“Doesn’t Duncan know the way to his own quarters?” he asked, pursing his lips. There was still too much anger bubbling in his chest to hold himself back, though he should if he wanted to have any hope of catching the Warden’s interest.

Irving sighed, but unlike Ambrose, he missed the amused twitch of Duncan’s lips.

“You are not an apprentice anymore, child.” _Then you shouldn’t call me_ child. “You represent the Circle now, so please behave accordingly,” Irving scolded him. There was no heat behind his words, only the exhaustion of a fight already lost. Ambrose didn’t answer but took a deep breath and put on a smile, just a little too sharp to be friendly.

“If you would follow me, Ser Warden?”

And follow him, he did. Ambrose could hear the clacking of his armor, as familiar as anything in this tower. Such a strange thing considering that the Warden didn’t truly belong here.

“So, can you tell me a little about what’s happening outside?” Ambrose began, trying to sound as casual as possible. He needed to play his cards right here. Be interested, but not overly eager.

“Ah. I imagine you don’t have much opportunity to leave?” Duncan asked; it felt like he was fishing as much for information as Ambrose did. He huffed.

“None at all. I’ve never left this tower,” Ambrose admitted. The grip on his staff tightened again.

“Never?”

He sighed but nodded.

“Both my parents were mages. I was born in one Circle and then send and raised here.” It was an old story, yet he still had to repeat it with every apprentice who got curious about him. But Duncan hummed in understanding, obviously a circumstance he had heard about before. He didn’t question Ambrose further; instead talking about the Kocari Wilds and the darkspawn that gathered there.

And so, they talked. Just a little. About the war and the lack of mages. About darkspawn and the Archdemon, Duncan feared would appear sooner or later. About the necessity of mages.

Ambrose made sure to mention that he was more than interested in the wardens-not really- and in helping with the battle. Duncan seemed... fine. Maybe a little overly passionate about the whole Gray Warden stuff, but not as fanatic as some templars he had met.

When they finally reached the guest quarters, they had taken more time than Ambrose would typically have needed. However, Duncan thanked him, and Ambrose put on an easy smile he still didn’t entirely feel. But it was easier than before.

When he left the Warden, he stopped outside his door, gathering his thoughts. This was too perfect. If he could just convince this Warden to take him along to Ostagar, to the battlefields. He could just... vanish into the Wilds. They’d have a hard time tracking him down, phylactery or not. He could be free... He could-

“Psst. Ambrose!”

He jolted out of his thoughts. He looked up and found Jowan, nervously shuffling close to a pillar. With a frown on his face, he walked over, looking left and right to make sure no one was around to think about them being suspicious. Because that was exactly what this looked like.

“You know how suspicious this looks, right?”

“That’s- It doesn’t matter right now. We need to talk,” Jowan hissed, shaking his head. The half-elf tilted his head.

“Are you having another nervous break-down?”

_“Ambrose.”_

Ambrose lifted his hands in mock defense.

“Alright, fine. What is it?” he asked, lowering his voice ever so slightly, but Jowan shook his head.

“Not here. Let’s go somewhere more private.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape plans are made...

Ambrose and Jowan walked through the hallways. They pass the open archways leading to the storage room, past the library, past templars and mages alike. Jowan was exuding nervous energy, and it was beginning to make Ambrose feel just as restless.

“Come on, Jowan. What is this about?” he whispered, but Jowan deflected with a shake of his head. He clicked his tongue in response and continued to follow the human.

Contrary to Ambrose’s expectation Jowan did not continue towards the stairs to get down to the apprentice dorms again but instead turned to enter the small chapel the tower housed. Ambrose hadn’t been here in a while, not since the last holiday—Wintersend. Attending Chantry service was mandatory on the holidays, but not between them, though it always looked better to show up once and again.

He didn’t particularly like this room. It was bleak, and the walls echoed strangely. There was fire in the braziers, of course, but it still was cold. The room was too vast to be warmed by only a few flickering flames, eternal or not. Without a crowd nor a fireplace, it was mostly freezing in this room. There were a few pews, empty at this hour, all facing the heavy statue depicting Andraste.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, but he was quick to follow Jowan into a more private corner of the Chantry. Though they weren’t alone. One of the Chantry sisters was waiting there. A pretty young woman with red hair. She smiled when she saw Jowan.

“This should be okay,” Jowan said, standing next to her. Ambrose blinked at him, glanced at the woman, then back to Jowan again.

“Do you need eye-glasses, my friend?” Jowan sighed and moved to stand a little closer to the Sister.

“No, it’s okay. Remember a few weeks ago, how I told you that I met a girl?” the human asked. Ambrose nodded. Indeed, he did remember, mostly because the phrasing seemed so strange. The Circle population wasn’t exactly what one would call fluctuating. There were the occasional new apprentices, primarily children and young teens. Every other year or so, a new mage was passed to Kinloch Hold from another Circle in exchange for someone else. Add to that the few new templars from time to time and some Chantry sisters coming and going now and again.

There isn’t exactly a lot of room to ‘meet a girl’ whom they hadn’t already known for several years.

“Well,” Jowan continued. “This is Lily.”

_Well, shit._

“Huh. So she does exist. And here I was thinking you were just talking about your hand. My condolences, by the way,” Ambrose offered. Lily giggled, but Jowan flushed with embarrassment giving Ambrose a deadpan stare.

“Very funny,” he muttered. Ambrose grinned at him, but then his expression turned serious once more.

“But seriously, Jowan, what is this about? I doubt you brought me here just to introduce me to your... whatever you two want to call yourself.” He looked at the two humans with narrowed eyes. They looked at one another; Lily took Jowan’s hand in hers, squeezing it with an encouraging nod.

“It’s not just that,” Jowan admitted finally. “Lily and I... we want to run away from here. Together.”

Ambrose looked at Jowan. Blinking several times before leaning back, looking his old companion over. Jowan had never said anything about wanting to leave the tower before. Not this openly. He had been taken to the tower at a young age, his mother had been more than willing to let him go, so there was little desire for him to return back there. He was also not exactly the brave or daring type making this... unusual.

He really must be in over his head for this girl. Or there was something else going on.

“What brought that on so suddenly?” Jowan shifted his weight from one foot to the other before he finally answered:

“They want to make me tranquil.”

“Maker, not again. You can’t know that yet, Jowan,” Ambrose sighed, rubbing at his temple, but Lily interrupted him.”

“I’ve seen the order on the Knight-Commander’s desk with my own eyes. Please, we need your help,” she pleaded.

“Really?”

Lily nodded.

“Fuck,” Ambrose muttered, rubbing his face. The headache was starting up again. “Do you even have a plan? It’s not like you can just parade out of here.”

“I know, but first I need to destroy my phylactery, so they can’t just find me again,” Jowan explained.

“Again; It’s not like you can just walk into the basement and get your phylactery. There are safety measures and traps and-“

“I know,” Jowan said with a sigh. he starts pacing around in the small corner. “I know. But that’s why we need your help. The door to the basement hall can only be opened with a password, which Lily has, and the magic of a harrowed mage, which would be you. The door to the repository only has a simple, non-magical lock, so if we had a Rod of Fire, we could melt straight through it.

“But the Stockroom wouldn’t just give such an item to an apprentice, so...”

He turns around to Ambrose, looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Please. I don’t want to lose all my emotions. My love for Lily. Our friendship,” he continued. Ambrose groaned, leaning his head into his neck.

“Andraste’s hairy ass. Don’t you dare get all sappy on me now. What do I even get out of this? When they find out I helped you, I will get the punishment. You know that, right?” he pointed out, narrowing his eyes at the taller man.

“You could flee with us,” Lily offered quickly, stepping forward. Ambrose shook his head.

“They already brought my phylactery to Denerim.” Yet Lily wasn’t that easily swayed.

“You’d be miles away by the time they would be able to send someone to Denerim to get it. And you are clever; everyone in this tower knows it. You could evade the templars much easier than we can.” She looked hopeful and honest, and if Ambrose was a little less suspicious, he might have believed her eagerness to be true. But he huffed, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and thought.

This was a risk. But an opportunity too.

If they were caught, he and Jowan would be punished. Jowan would be made tranquil for sure, but they couldn’t do that to Ambrose. He was a harrowed mage, and unless they wanted to cause a scandal inside the tower, they wouldn’t dare to make him tranquil too. Which, of course, did not mean his punishment would be lenient.

For a moment, his thoughts drifted to the cells in the basement, to Anders. A shudder ran down his spine, and he quickly pushed the thoughts back.

But if they weren’t caught...

He could be free.

He could make his way south, across the Waking Sea. Maybe all the way to Tevinter. He wouldn’t need to rely on the interest of one Warden.

He could be _free._

After a few moments of agonizing silence, Ambrose finally nodded.

“Alright. I will help you.”

**//////////**

He should not have agreed to this.

At least not without asking what they were planning on doing.

Maker’s breath, he had half a mind to get that damn Rod and leave by himself. He didn’t even need to go to the repository! His phylactery wasn’t there anymore.

He could just—

“Surana.”

“Huh?” Ambrose looked up to see Rutherford standing in the hallway, a quizzical look on his face. Again without his helmet. The poor bastard was almost begging to get into trouble.

“Rutherford. What is it? I’m kind of in the middle of something,” Ambrose asked, walking closer despite his words.

“Ah. I apologize. I just wanted to... congratulate you on passing your Harrowing?” he said, his voice slowing tapering off, seemingly uncertain once he saw the confused expression on the mage’s face.

Ambrose crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking at him with narrowed eyes and a tilted head.

“Congratulate- Why? Because you didn’t have to kill me for becoming an abomination instead?”

Cullen shifted on his feet, his armor clacking with the movement.

“I would not have enjoyed it,” he argued. “I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

Ambrose barked a sharp laugh.

“Of course not,” he spat. “Because no templar ever wanted to just run a mage through; Abomination or not.” Sarcasm dripped with each of his words, enough to make Cullen frown.

“I know there are Templars like this,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “But I’m-“

“Not like that,” Ambrose ended the sentence for him. “Because you haven’t been here long. And I’ve told you before; One day you’ll think like that. One day you’ll want to hurt someone for no reason other than you can.” He uncrossed his arms, taking a few steps back.

“And I’ve also told you to keep your fucking helmet on and your hand on your sword unless you want to tempt some desperate idiot to give you a concussion without even using magic,” Ambrose called and walked away.

Idealistic fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be longer and end the Origins part, but I ended up deciding to split it after all. Mostly because I, myself, are not a fan of super long chapters.  
> I rather have more short chapters than a few very long ones x)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ambrose's time in the circle comes to a close in the most chaotic way possible.

It turned out that getting a Rod of Fire required not only a filled-out form from a Senior Enchanter but also an uncomfortable amount of spiders. _Big_ spiders.

“You. Owe. Me,” he grumbled as he shoved the Rod into Jowan’s hands. The human’s face lit up.

“You got it! Thank you, Ambrose. I mean it.”

“Quick now. We should go before someone notices something is off,” Lily reminded them. And so they made their way to the basement.

Jowan and Ambrose walked side by side. Lily was a little behind them with enough distance to make the casual onlooker think they didn’t walk together. Ambrose used this to speak with Jowan.

“Why do they even want to make you tranquil in the first place? You’re by far not the worst mage and barely ever caused any trouble,” he whispered. Jowan sighed, wringing his hands.

“They think I’ve dabbled in blood magic,” he answered.

Ambrose tensed for a moment, flexing his fingers. He didn’t look at Jowan as he asked:

“Did you?”

Nothing in his voice betrayed the churning in his stomach, the curiosity in his mind. No accusations, no worry. Nothing.

“No!” Jowan quickly stopped himself, looking around before he repeated in a whisper, “No. They must’ve seen me sneaking around at night to meet Lily. I’d never-“

For a moment, their eyes met, and Ambrose wasn’t sure what he saw, which urged Jowan to stop talking, but he didn’t ask. Didn’t push further. He simply nodded.

Did someone find the knife in Jowan’s mattress? The one he carried now? If they were looking into Jowan, did they also look into him?

His mind spiraled, going deeper and deeper down an endless rabbit hole before he forced himself to stop.

 _No,_ he thought. No. If they suspected anything about him, they wouldn’t have allowed him to take his harrowing. They would have made him tranquil or killed him last night.

He was safe.

It was okay.

“Okay,” he said out loud.

“Okay? Nothing more?” Jowan eyed him with nervous, narrowed eyes.

“You are not exactly the picture of an evil maleficar, Jowan,” Ambrose muttered.

They reached the basement shortly after, and as soon as they had made sure no one was looking in their direction, they quickly walked downstairs.

It was years since Ambrose had last been down here. There were no fond memories about it, no matter how one wanted to twist and turn it.

But he remembered the large wooden door in front of him. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to forget it.

‘The Victim’s Door,’ Lily called it. A rather aptly name, Ambrose thought.

And leave it to them to think of such an ominous password too.

“Sword of the Maker, Tears of the Fade,” she muttered towards the door. There was a clicking sound, a shift in the air around them like something was waiting for them to make their next move. Ambrose didn’t let it wait for long, allowing a bolt of magical energy to clash with the wooden door.

The wood creaked with the force before it finally swung open.

“One door down,” Ambrose muttered and walked ahead in quick strides. He remembered the next door too, though he had never seen it opened before. The repository wasn’t open to the apprentices; even most senior enchanters were not allowed to go there. Especially not without supervision.

Ambrose pulled out the Rod of Fire and aimed it at the lock, but... nothing happened.

“Shit,” he growled. He should’ve known that something was off about the whole ‘just a simple lock’ business. Magic wasn’t working around the door. He could even feel it now that he was looking for it. It felt like an empty spot.

This wasn't good. They’ve already made it here, and now...

Jowan was clearly about to panic again, while Lily tried to keep a cool head. However, Ambrose could see her fidgeting, looking at the still locked door with wide eyes, as if that would change its mind and cause it to simply open up.

Ambrose stepped away from the door and turned to look down the hallway.

He knew that path and where it led. But he also remembered that there was another door he had never passed through and maybe... Maybe there was still a way inside the repository.

“We could try this way,” he pointed out. “But there might be other safety measures to stop people from entering... or leaving.”

The humans looked at each other before they nodded.

“We don’t have a choice.”

Ambrose was right, of course. The first suit of armor standing in the hallway was already becoming animate when they took a few steps in its direction.

But it didn’t stop them.

They fought surprisingly well together, Ambrose thought, especially considering that Lily was a Chantry sister. They passed a few storage rooms, got Jowan a staff to better defend himself, and then, they reached the cells.

A cold shudder ran down Ambrose’s back; he felt constricted the moment he saw the metal bars.

Dirty straw and dried blood scattered on floor and walls, and screams were lingering in the empty air, only half-swallowed by dust, and he didn’t know if they belonged to him or someone else or if he was screaming right—

“Ambrose?”

He looked up to find Jowan’s worried eyes on him.

“Are you okay?”

Ambrose looked at him, saw him reaching out, and he wanted to move away, evade the hand before it could touch him, but he was frozen to the spot. Jowan’s hand rattled through his body like nails scratching on a chalkboard, finally causing him to move.

“’m good,” he muttered, slipping out from under the hand before he continued on their path with quick steps. He did not look up until they left the cells.

**//////////**

It felt like hours until they finally stepped into what looked like a storage room for ancient and magical artifacts.

Mechanical constructions, statues, books, and boxes of all shapes and sizes were cluttered about. There were no more doors, nothing that would bring them closer to the repository. They looked around for a while until Ambrose spotted the life-sized statue of a human. He stood before it, tilting his head this way and that.

“You look pretty old, friend. Wonder how you ended up here,” he mused. Jowan chuckled.

“Are you talking to statues again?” he asked, coming to a stand next to Ambrose. The half-elf was about to protest when a voice spoke:

“Greetings.”

All three of them jumped.

“Did-did the statue just... talk?” Jowan asked.

It did indeed.

The spirit and essence of an ancient Tevene woman bound to a statue as punishment for foretelling the fall of her husband’s house. Correctly so, but obviously unappreciated.

Ambrose was fascinated. Lily begged him and Jowan to not speak with the talking statue. At the same time, Jowan seemed rather uninterested in her once it became clear that she wouldn’t be able to help them.

“Fine, fine. I’m coming,” Ambrose grumbled after a while. Then he turned to the statue once more. “It was a pleasure talking with you. Hope you don’t catch too much dust down here.”

“Allow me to warn you, child,” she said, stopping him in his tracks.

“You sure? The last time didn’t end so well for you.” He nodded to her statue form, but she ignored his words, speaking her warning instead.

“There will be darkness, threatening to swallow you whole. Don’t listen to the song when it calls for you.”

Ambrose frowned, but the statue stood there in silence as if she had never spoken at all. If Lily wasn’t giving him this worried look, he might have thought he had dreamed it all.

“Hey, look over here!” Jowan called, and the warning was forgotten.

What Jowan had found was a crumbling piece of wall hidden behind a bookshelf and a statue that amplified magical spells cast at it- carved into the form of a dog. How very Ferelden.

Ambrose shoved some of the books aside, holding his hand to the wall. It was cold. Much colder than the walls on the other side of the room. He grinned at Jowan.

“Jackpot.”

**//////////**

It took them an embarrassingly long time to move the bookshelf out of the way. But when they finally blasted through the door and finished off the sentinels guarding the room, they were indeed in the repository.

It could only be the right place. Phylactery after phylactery laid on shelves. The blood in them cooled by the temperature of the room. The stone walls were covered in ice, and the floor was just slippery enough to make Ambrose very conscious of where he stepped.

“Well, let’s find your phylactery and get out of here,” Ambrose muttered.

Thankfully all phylacteries were labeled with names.

Eadric, Ryla, Ben, Ghilanna, Fredrick, Juniper, Thomis, Finn.

Familiar names connected to familiar faces.

The list went on, and part of Ambrose was tempted to smash all of them, but before he could act on this thought, he saw the name he was looking for: Jowan.

“Over here!” he called, snatching the small vial, and offered it to Jowan as soon as he reached him.

“You found it!” The relief was clear in his voice as he took the vial. He looked it over, watched the blood slowly move with each tilt of the vial.

“To think that this little thing is all that stands between me and my freedom,” he mused, lifting the phylactery up against the cold light. “So fragile, so easy just to be rid of it... to end its hold over me...”

With a loud crack, the vial shattered on the ground, leaving nothing but shards of glass and a splatter of blood. Jowan closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and Ambrose could only imagine what it would feel like. To know that he could go anywhere now without fear of them tracking him down.

To be... free. As free, they could be in this place, that is.

Ambrose too took a breath before he walked past Jowan and Lily.

“Then let’s get out of here before something else happens.”

“Ambrose,” Jowan called. He turned around to look at him. Jowan was smiling. Wider than he ever had in all the years they’ve known each other. “Thank you.”

“Hm. Thank me when we’re out of the tower,” he answered.

But they never got that far.

Not together.

They hadn’t even made it ten steps out of the basement before the Knight-Commander himself, and Irving were upon them, together with a handful of templars.

“I knew it,” Greagoir growled as he stomped towards them. Jowan seemed frozen to the spot while Lily almost tried to hide behind him. Ambrose tried to take a few steps away, but he knew it was too late for that.

Everything felt too fast and too slow at the same time. Accusations were flying around.

Conspiring with a blood mage. Trespassing. Destroying a phylactery. Breaking the most basic of Circle rules. Corruption of a Chantry initiate. Repeated assistance of helping someone flee...

But then Greagoir wanted to make Jowan tranquil and send Lily to Aeonar, the mage prison. That was all it took to make Jowan snap completely. All warning Ambrose got was the flash of light reflecting off a knife. For a moment, his stomach twisted, thinking Jowan might have stolen his knife while he didn’t notice, but he felt the weight of it still in his pouch.

“Jow-“ he began, but then there was blood, and the air around them shifted as suddenly and violently as a storm. Ambrose was thrown off his feet; he fell and felt his head hit the stone floor.

For a moment, everything was black; the whole room was spinning as he laid there on the ground. Slowly the world came to a stop.

There was more shouting, orders being called. It was chaos.

But Ambrose was quiet.

 _Blood mage,_ he thought. He _lied._

And then Ambrose laughed.

A fucking _blood mage._

He had never thought that he and Jowan had much in common aside from living in the same space for almost all their lives, but... seems like he was wrong. Seems like Jowan did have it in him after all.

A _fucking_ blood mage.

Slowly the laughter died on his lips, and he took a moment longer to close his eyes. With a sigh, he got up, rubbing at the back of his head.

The templars were upon him in a matter of seconds, two of them holding his arms, one taking his staff. He grimaced and watched the Knight-Commander point at him.

“This time you went too far, Surana. This isn’t just some foolish would-be apostate anymore. You helped a blood mage,” he hissed. Ambrose pressed his lips together, lifting his head proudly.

“I didn’t know what he was,” he argued.

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Ambrose,” Irving said, his voice heavy with disappointment and maybe even anger. “This not a game. Jowan is dangerous.”

 _We all are,_ Ambrose wanted to argue, but he held his tongue.

They were still arguing what to do with him after sending Lily to Aeonar.

“One moment.” All heads turned towards the voice. Duncan, the Gray Warden. “I would like to invoke the rite of conscription for this young mage.”

Greagoir immediately refused, and Irving too didn’t seem too pleased with it. But the rite of conscription was final. The only one who might be able to refuse it would probably be the King if Duncan didn’t want to cause a political uprising. Or maybe the Divine herself, but not Greagoir. Not Irving.

The templars let go of him, returned his staff to him, and with quick steps, Ambrose stood at Duncan’s side, clutching the staff in his hands.

“I- I can go?” he asked, looking at Duncan. The warden nodded at him, a quick smile twitching on his lips.

“Yes. We will go to Ostagar, and there you will officially join the Wardens,” he explained. Ser Greagoir scoffed, throwing his hands up.

“Getting rewarded with becoming a warden instead of a punishment! This will end badly.”

The first enchanter sighed deeply and turned to look at Ambrose.

“Be proud, child,” he said, softer than before. “To become a Warden is a great honor, especially at such a young age. Be proud and remember where you come from.”

Ambrose stepped away before he could reach out to touch his shoulder, his knuckles paling on the staff.

“I will,” he said, not trying to soften the edge in his voice.

How could he ever forget?


End file.
